


The Nick Nullification

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [14]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 20:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18431192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: N had to be Nick!





	The Nick Nullification

**Author's Note:**

> N had to be Nick!

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Strike muttered.

Nick looked at him sideways. “What?”

Strike took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out across the Herberts’ back garden. “Prosecco,” he said succinctly. “Whose idea was that? I don’t even like the bloody stuff. Why did I let you give me a glass? And then another one?”

Nick chuckled. “I didn’t pour it down your throat,” he said. “Besides, the girls drank most of it.” He grinned and winked. “Bit of a shame Robin’s staying over tonight. Prosecco has a rather...delicious effect on Ilsa.”

“Ugh, keep your trade secrets to yourself,” Strike said, drawing on his cigarette again.

Shrieks of merriment came from the kitchen as if to prove Nick’s point.

“Oh, God, what’s she telling Robin?” Nick grumbled. “They gang up on me when Robin’s here, you know.” He was trying and failing to look like he minded. Nick and Ilsa were both very fond of Robin.

Strike sighed. “Christ, Nick. Just keep her away from me,” he said.

Nick squinted at him. “Ilsa? Why?”

“Not Ilsa, Robin!” Strike snorted, amused.

“Why do I need to keep Robin away from you?”

“Just...just look at her.” Strike waved his cigarette at the kitchen window. Robin and Ilsa were giggling at the table, surrounded by the detritus of an exuberant curry night. Takeaway cartons littered the table, and two empty Prosecco bottles stood in the middle.

Nick looked. Robin was wearing an emerald green silk blouse, her red-gold hair contrasting beautifully and shimmering in the soft kitchen lights. Her eyes danced as Ilsa leaned forward to stage-whisper something to her. Even Nick, who only had eyes for his wife, could see what Strike meant.

“Yeah, she looks good,” he said. “But, you know, she’s happy. Finally got her divorce through. Hah!” He pointed triumphantly at Strike. “That’s why you had to have Prosecco. Celebration.”

Strike nodded. He went to draw on his cigarette, seemed surprised to find it finished, and lit another. Even with all the food he’d eaten, half a bottle of Prosecco on top of a few beers had not been the best plan.

“So why do I have to keep her away from you?”

Strike sighed again. “Because I’m a stupid fucker and I’ll say something,” he said. “Or worse, do something.”

“And that would be bad because why?”

Strike glared at him. “She literally just got divorced this week. What, I’m gonna pounce the minute she’s single?” He shook his head. “Not appropriate. Too soon. She’s not on the same page.”

Nick looked at him appraisingly. “Are you sure—?”

“Agh.” Strike held up a hand. “Trust me. She’s looking like that, and I’m feeling like this, and I’ve had maybe slightly too much to drink... I swear, I’ll say something. Don’t leave me alone with her. Please.” He gazed imploringly at his friend.

Nick looked back at him levelly for a moment, and nodded. “Okay.”

Strike drew on his fresh cigarette and turned back to face the garden. “Thanks,” he muttered. He was feeling oddly vulnerable all of a sudden, and was glad he didn’t have to spell it out. Nick understood.

In the kitchen, the women were still giggling.

“I can’t believe you just told me that,” Robin said, slightly pink. “How am I going to look your husband in the eye now?”

Ilsa grinned outrageously. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s the Prosecco. Always makes me a bit wild. And a bit—” she lowered her voice to a stage whisper again “—horny.”

“Ugh, maybe I will go home after all,” Robin said, giggling again.

“On your own?” Ilsa asked, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Who would I— Oh!” Robin went red and put her hand over her mouth. “Ilsa Herbert!” she hissed.

Ilsa laughed and waved an arm. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other,” she said. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. You’re truly single now, you know.”

Robin fanned her scarlet cheeks. “Stop!” she begged. “They’ll be back in in a min—” She broke off with a squeak as the patio doors slid open and the men entered the kitchen.

Nick regarded Robin’s flushed face. “Good God, wife, what marital secrets have you been telling your friends this time?” he complained.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, husband?” Ilsa winked at him outrageously and he laughed fondly.

“You know, I think I probably wouldn’t,” he replied. “Come on, Oggy. Match of the Day is starting.”

The men ambled though to the lounge, and Ilsa went and grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge.

“Ooh, more? Hmm, might be a bad plan,” Robin said, grinning.

“Nonsense!” Ilsa cried, opening the bottle and pouring her a glass. “Why would it be a bad plan?”

Robin puffed out her cheeks which were pink again. “I might do something silly,” she said, nodding her head towards the living room.

Ilsa squealed and clapped her hands. “I knew it!” she cried. “I knew you felt the same as him!”

“Shh!” Robin hissed, casting an anxious glance down the hall, but loud football commentary was drifting out from the lounge. “What makes you think he feels it?”

Ilsa snorted. “Trust me,” she said airily. “I’ve known him since were were six. I know what he looks like when he’s interested in a girl. And believe me, he’s really interested.” She chortled wickedly, and Robin blushed redder.

“So when did you start noticing him?” Ilsa asked.

“Fucking Man U,” Strike muttered in the lounge. “I’m going out for another smoke. I’ll be back for the next match.”

“Yeah, I’m going for a slash,” Nick agreed. Leaving the television burbling, the men went to complete their missions.

Strike strolled out through the kitchen past Ilsa and Robin, who were still chatting and giggling, red-gold and blonde heads almost touching. He grinned fondly at them. What on earth did women find to endlessly gossip about? He waved his cigarettes at them and let himself out onto the patio.

Ilsa poked Robin hard on the arm.

“Ow! What?”

Ilsa nodded vigorously towards the door, wincing as she cricked her neck a little. “Go snog him,” she whispered.

Robin pulled a face. “Don’t be silly.”

“He’ll snog you back. Bet you...a million quid.”

Robin giggled. “Have you got a secret trust fund I don’t know about?”

“No, I’m just not gonna lose the bet.” Ilsa winked.

Robin hesitated, then stood, bold. “I’m going to...go talk to him,” she said. “And don’t squee. Or watch. Go in the lounge.”

Ilsa pouted and giggled, but obeyed, wandering off with her glass and skipping a little once she was out of Robin’s eyeline.

Robin took a deep breath, and let herself out onto the patio.

Strike looked around, expecting Nick, and his eyes widened at the sight of her. Robin shivered a little, wrapping her arms around herself. The chilly air sobered her up a bit and her plan, such a good idea under Ilsa’s egging on, seemed far-fetched suddenly. Just a chat, then.

“Hi,” she said, and he smiled his crinkle-eyed smile at her and her heart turned over.

“Hi yourself,” he replied softly. “Good evening?”

Robin nodded, her eyes fond. “As always,” she said. “I do love those Herberts.”

Strike nodded. “They are pretty great.”

Silence settled over them. Strike smoked and concentrated hard on keeping his mouth shut and his feelings on the inside.

Robin sighed a little sigh. “You know, I didn’t think I’d feel different,” she said, “I left Matthew over a year ago. But I do. Now I’m truly free.”

Strike nodded, and she laughed suddenly, exhilarated, spreading her arms wide. “I’m free!” she said. “Free to...do anything, really. I’m me.”

Nick arrived back in the living room to find Ilsa lying on the sofa, vaguely watching the television. “One of the red ones just scored,” she said, waving her arm. “And I need your doctory hands, I cricked my neck.”

Nick smiled and went to sit behind her as she hauled herself up, his hands going to her shoulders, slender fingers massaging into her muscles and up her neck. Ilsa groaned and dropped her head forwards.

“That feels gooooood,” she murmured. “Shame Robin’s staying.”

Nick chuckled. “We have other nights. Where is Robin?”

“Outside, talking to Corm,” Ilsa muttered vaguely. “Hey, don’t stop— Nick, where are you—?”

Her husband had dashed from the room, gabbling “no, no, no, no, no” under his breath.

On the patio, Strike was just staring at Robin. What did she mean, free to do anything? Was that a signal? It didn’t sound like a signal. But the way she was looking at him... He dropped his cigarette and ground it out, and turned to face her fully.

Robin stepped towards him, her eyes on his. “Cormoran—”

The patio door slid abruptly and suddenly Nick was behind them, slightly out of breath. “Oggy!” he cried. “Another beer?”

Robin stepped back, her gaze falling to the floor. Strike glared at Nick, every fibre of his being trying to communicate without words that he should just go away, now, at once.

Nick firmly refused to notice. “Lovely evening,” he remarked, moving to stand next to them. “Have you seen the cats? Ossie’s upstairs I think, but I haven’t seen Ricky for ages.”

Robin fidgeted a little.

“Nick,” Ilsa called from the kitchen. “Shall we tidy up?”

“In a minute,” he called over his shoulder.

“Nick.” There was a tone in his wife’s voice that brooked no argument. Nick hesitated, but he was a man on a mission, rescuing his friend from himself.

There was a slightly strained pause.

“I’ll help with the dishes,” Robin said eventually, and went back into the house.

“We’ll all go,” said Nick, not wanting to incur his wife’s annoyance any more than was necessary.

“Fuck’s sake,” Strike muttered under his breath, and followed.

 


End file.
